Atonement
by Athan Raczynski
Summary: 'The day after he becomes a killer [...], Sherlock wakes to find Irene reading his newspaper and drinking his coffee.' Set during The Great Hiatus.


_To clarify where this story stands:_

_1.- I believe Sherlock has never killed anyone. Probably because that would ruin his partnership with the Yard, probably because he thinks killing is wrong. I don't think, for example, that he would have tried to kill Moriarty himself (in my opinion he just wanted to win)._

_2.- Irene is with him at this point of The Great Hiatus, but she's more of a occasional presence rather than a constant ally. Why? Well, I suppose she's learnt to appreciate the fact she's alive, but still thinks she owes to Sherlock._

_Also, sorry for the OOCness__—but this situation isn't exactly ideal for none of them._

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**Atonement**

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The day after he becomes a killer and in doing so loses a strange sort of blood virginity, Sherlock wakes to find Irene reading his newspaper and drinking his coffee, and the act is so personal that he feels a stab of more than annoyance, something like genuine hatred. He understands that it is not directed at her, that she is simply a physical representation of indefinable changes, and he does his best to ignore the emotion, to reach past her for the half-empty kettle and the ink-smeared front page of the newspaper.

"Morning," she says, and he wonders if she doesn't have anywhere else to be, if this is a last resort or if it is the equivalent of retrieving breakfast on the morning after. Which it is, he thinks. Death in the heat of the moment is passion, and that passion is the only thing that's separating it from plain and simple murder. He was fighting for his life, for all of their lives, the alpha male defending the weaker members of the family. Primal, really, animalistic, and he decides he's not going to bring it up.

"Morning," he replies, and if his face is lined and his eyes are harsh with nightmares, she doesn't tell him. She looks back down at the page in her hand and he does the same, glancing at the articles out of habit and not actual interest. He reads the same paragraph four times before realizing that he is not retaining any knowledge of the words and he folds the page with one sharp crease, sets it down the table in front of him. The masthead stares accusingly at him and the headlines speak of death and violence.

Irene is still reading her section, something about politics that probably reminds her of former misbehavings. Her hair falls in front of her face, dividing him from her. She's close enough for him to reach out and brush it aside, but he won't. He takes a sip of coffee, feels the heat searing down his throat, and resists the urge to look at the clock. Checking will not make the day pass more quickly; it never does. The sky is the indeterminate shade of gray that has come to define these days for him, the slow iron ticking of time. It is the slate gray of tombstones and the pale gray of ash. It is the rain that falls in all shades in between. It is the illusion of negative space and sometimes he loves it, but right now, the concept of eternity is one that he dares not fathom.

She sets the paper aside, crumpling the edges, and hastily straightens them as if she thinks the disarray has offended him. "You want breakfast?" she asks, looking at him over the rim of her coffee mug. Her eyes are warm in the morning gloom, a curious phrase which seems to imply that this sense of futility will fade at noon.

"Not hungry," he mumbles, and it's mostly true.

To her credit, she doesn't reply with the same innuendo that follows his never-changing answer at her offers of breakfast, lunch and, most importantly, dinner. Instead, she acknowledges him with a hummed syllable, a brief, wordless intrusion, and crosses her arms, leans forward as if sharing a confidence. "So I was thinking maybe today we could swing by the docks and since it's supposed to rain tonight, we could return and play chess." As if rain was an occasion, something to celebrate with wine and games.

Sherlock does his best to look regretful, and since it's sincere, it's not that difficult. "I'm going to stay in today," he decides, and if she is disappointed, he tries not to notice. He's taken the weirdest vacation of his life and look where that has gotten him. This is not an area in which he wishes to gain experience, a concept of desired ignorance that seems so alien yet appealing. The idea of preserving the lives of those who are important to him, no matter how accurate, doesn't make him feel any better; nor does the idea of repentance. He doesn't need excuses, because he had reasons, but that doesn't change the fact that men are dead, people have died. He remembers Karachi, the way he manoeuvred both him and Irene out of her prison without taking a single life, and now it feels as if the human side of him, what had kept him from becoming the psychopath Sgt Donovan feared, had died as he jumped from the roof of St Barts. "Loads to catch up on."

"Fresh air would do you good," she utters, as if trying to persuade a sullen child. She seems to realize what she's doing and the cloying tone drops away, replaced by something more natural, more normal, more Irene. "Salt water, wind, good for what ails you."

"I think I've gotten enough fresh air lately," he bickers, remembering the smell of blood and fire mingled in the forest, and the silence after he speaks is painful. She is searching for something to say, a choice of words that will restore the status quo and take away what has happened, and he's trying not to hear anything at all. She opens her mouth to speak and he thinks, suddenly, that she's going to ask him if he's okay. "But thanks," he adds lamely to avoid the awkwardness of her concern.

She nods. "Anytime. You need to eat, though." She doesn't look at him when she mentions this, as if avoiding his eyes will lessen the blow, what seems a calculated attack. If she provokes him with kindness, his reaction will be limited.

"Yeah," he admits, "But I've still got another ten days." The number is actually chosen at random, such experiment has never been held for so long and he wonders if there is any truth to it, if he could survive that much longer on coffee alone.

Irene raises her eyebrows and he wants to tell her that he wasn't serious, that he was exaggerating for the point of making an example, but that will only draw more attention to his words. "That's extreme."

He shrugs; there's no other option. "Making a point."

"Right." She doesn't sound like she believes him and Sherlock wishes she would try harder. Though he is not incapable of creating his own illusions and/or delusions, it generally helps if they are, at least at first, based in reality.

"So," he says, even when he despises small talk, because the intensity of her stare is starting to bother him, "You're not going back to work?"

"I'm taking a few personal days."

"You know," he starts, and he's not sure how to finish. She already took several days off, and even if her income is almost as high as it was when she still resided in London and can manage a long period of inactivity, he knows that there will be a limit; her job is sacred, her hold not impervious...

But above all, he thinks her safety is paramount, as much as it is John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade's, yet he pretends otherwise and ignores the things that happened on top of a thin mattress in a hot, dusty safe house in the outskirts of Karachi. They could have written volumes in subtext, in every small movement, but they_—_he, at least_—_don't say it out loud.

"I know," she prompts.

He goes for it, bites the proverbial bullet. "If you're here because of me..."

"Nah, I'm here for the coffee," she says, effectively preventing any protests he could have made; if he continues along this line, he will sound desperate and arrogant, as if he wants her to admit that he is, in fact, the only reason she hasn't left. Which he doesn't.

"The coffee," he comments, "is almost gone."

"So I'll put another kettle."

He shrugs, pushes away from the table, feeling a flash of irritation at the frivolousness of the conversation. "Suit yourself."

But she doesn't; she trails him into the bedroom he's turned into his office, stands in the doorway and watches him plug-in and boot his laptop_—_the battery doesn't charge anymore; yet another thing that doesn't work as it's supposed to_—_check his mobile for any update from his brother. "Anything interesting?" she asks after a couple of minutes.

"Everything's dull as usual," he groans.

"Good to know some things never change." She retreats to the sitting room and his eyes follow her despite his best attempts. She flops down onto the couch, her limbs graceful even in that careless motion, and reaches for a pillow, holds it to her chest and looks at him over the mound of fabric. "Let me know if I'm bothering you," she offers, because she knows he won't.

"I will," he says. He turns back to the laptop and searches fruitlessly for obituaries. Either the men are not missed or the pieces are not online yet. His fingers tighten on the rim of the small desk, a deceptively gentle grip, a constructed effort. It is as if a boundary has been crossed, a test passed; the art of death is no longer one which he doesn't understand.

He notices there is a tremor in his hands that wasn't there the day before, and realises he needs something to take off the edge. Cocaine is out the question, even though he actually has a stash of white powder in the bottom drawer of the bedside table. A cigarette would do, but he hasn't any and Irene doesn't smoke. He'd really kill for a cigarette.

He almost applauds at his words of choice.

Death, he considers, is driving him insane, and he lowers his head onto his hands and laughs.

"I missed the joke?" Irene asks, her voice blurred by distance and comfort. She sounds half-asleep, he thinks, but she isn't. It is an act designed to get him to admit to things, to tell her what's wrong, but that thought is fleeting, dismissed immediately as overly paranoid.

"No," he replies, "You didn't."

"Good," she states, "Hate to make you repeat it."

"I wouldn't," he counters.

There's a silence that stretches for miles, and he nearly begins to catalogue it as unbearable when Irene decides to break it. "What I said before," she sighs, studying her fingernails. She can say this as long as she doesn't look at him, as long as he can write it off as idle conversation, empty words, "It's still true."

"I know," he says, and he really doesn't want to talk about this.

"It is good to know," she muses, "That I can take a couple days off and come here to do something other than _recreational scolding_. It's not as fulfilling as it used to be."

"Oh, that's what this is?" he asks. She has come here to escape reality... Yeah. Right now, he can't think of a more obvious lie. Even he would like the dullness of an ordinary life to this.

She shrugs like she thinks he believes her. "Is that a bad thing?"

There is a whir in the distance, a muffled thump, and then the lights go out. He watches as his work fades, one opal halo shrinking, shrinking, until the screen is completely black. He wants to say something, but none of his words can sum up, can encompass, the incredible mess his life has become. "Fuck," he finally whispers.

Irene chuckles, amused as the first time she heard him swearing. "You want me to get the candles?"

"There's light enough." He doesn't mind the dimness, the strange silence that settles over the flat. It is real silence, not the ambient noise that usually passes. But then he hears a rustle of movement and then she's next to him, setting an unlit candle on his desk.

"Just in case," she tells him. Her face is tired and shadowed, but just for an instant, and he wonders what this means to her, what he would lightly term as his final fall from grace.

"You'd think it's about time something would go right," Sherlock comments.

She looks at him with surprise. "It has," she says, "Maybe not peace-on-earth right, but you're alive. I'm alive. The world isn't ending around us. I'd say that's a good thing."

The optimism is startling, her faith in the positivity of survival blinding. "A good thing," he imitates simply. There is a crash outside the window; lightning bleaches the room for a millisecond. He realizes that it is dark and it is raining, a thrum against the windows and the abandoned asphalt.

"Means you have the chance to stop slacking and set things right," she opines, and her tone is not mock-stern and coy; it is honest, deep and raw.

"I do," he finally says and he knows, though he doesn't understand why, that they're both telling the truth.

"Alive," she repeats, and her hands are warm on his shoulder blades, tracing senseless patterns through the weave of his dressing gown, searing the skin underneath. He turns, catches her hands and pulls her down to him, presses her mouth to his as his fingers catch in the strands of her hair. Her eyes are black and liquid as she moves onto him, muscle and bone radiating the forgotten heat of stars, and when she leans back, he traces the delicate line from mouth to ear, brushes her hair out of her face.

He thinks he might be smiling, but then again, it's been so long since he did so, he wouldn't remember how the gesture feels in his own face.

"Alive," he whispers, seeing a flash of red as the word abandon his lips. Blood, the glint of a knife and the ringing post-explosion silence, but also the shade of her lips the day they first met, the colour of her nails as they dive into his back. Death is heavy in the air and she kisses him to dispel the images, the pads of her fingers weaving new words and new stories onto his skin. The future, and the past, and the utterly human aspect of what he has done, of what he'll do.

This is, she says with her hands and her mouth, this is being alive.

When they are done, her breath slows with real sleep, calm exhalations that hold more promises than can ever be fulfilled. It has stopped raining and light the colour of honey spills through the window as he closes his eyes, feeling the rise and fall of her ribcage beneath his splayed fingers. He thinks that he would kill for this woman, too. There is survival and there is life, and he will learn the difference.

She will teach him.


End file.
